


Angels don't live here anymore

by sihaya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel/Human Relationships, Angst and Tragedy, Don't copy to another site, Drama, M/M, Mystery, Mythology - Freeform, Out of Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-10-27 13:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20760824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sihaya/pseuds/sihaya
Summary: Lust is every illicit passion and desire. Corruption of the heart, leading to evil and sin.for community DoubleJ https://vk.com/jim_x_johnThe execution of the challenge JxJ Mini-Fest II. 2.1





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ангелы здесь больше не живут](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674682) by [sihaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sihaya/pseuds/sihaya). 

_For all that is in the world— the desires of the flesh, the desires of the eyes, and the pride of life— is not from the Father but from the world._   
_ The world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God remains forever.…_   
** _ John 2: 16-17_ **

_I ask on their behalf. I do not ask on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those You have given Me; for they are Yours._   
** _ John 17: 9_ **

"You can't." it sounds like Gabrielle would mind, but the angel was watching with universal understanding. 'Can't' was a verdict, an unspoken reproach that nothing good would come of it. As not goes she has the most. But the elder sister's reproaches did not reach the goal. Jehoel sighed, his weary gaze sweeping over the people who passed and ignored them. Only the children watched the angels with surprised gasps and wide eyes.

He was tired of being who he was. It was said that once upon a time, all of them — except the older ones, like Gabriel — had been human. They died and received grace for a righteous life. And his sister was one of the oldest: not born, but made of this very grace. They were overshadowed by the grace of God, but they were not happy.

"You'll ruin yourself," Gabrielle said when he didn't answer. She was an expert at how to ruin yourself. For a long time, John watched her worship her humans. Time after time she descended to the bottom, dedicating every particle of grace to her loved ones. Suffered, trying to die or fall. But she remained alive and untainted by sin. Then she will meet a new person, and it all started over again. And Jehoel envied those who had not yet been called upon to guard their souls.

He didn't understand Harry — how affectionately he called his sister — until he felt the call. And, watching the fleeting human life, learned how unbearable the valley of Eden. Their existence was empty without people.

With them — it was filled with vanity and pain.

"It's late," He whispered. He turned away from his sister and the humans back to the restaurant window. He leaned his forehead against it and sighed again. His man was there. Not yet angry, but the angel knew how easily his mood changed... Jim. He allowed himself to call him that.

"It's too late," Jehoel repeated, glancing sideways at his sister. Gabrielle's pale eyes sparkled with unshed tears. She had silently mourned his grace in advance, foreseeing the sad outcome.

"This man will send you to Hell" she whispered, making no attempt to dissuade him. They cannot be resisted the call. And fate cannot be rewritten. He could say it was a test of their Creator. Why else would he be given the darkest soul? Even in the first moments when he saw Jim, Jehoel thought that this was a joke and that he was not a man at all, but a demon. Of those who had followed Lucifer down and shared the solitude of the Lightbearer. Devoid of grace and overshadowed by the wings of darkness, knowing the essence of sin. Only then did Jehoel realize that his man was simply wallowing in sin and loneliness.

Gabrielle touched his shoulder, conveying her feelings of sadness and understanding. Accepting his choice. Something that couldn't be put into words. Jehoel shivered involuntarily, white wings brushing her palm. And Harry hastily withdrew her hand.

He felt his sister moving away, away from him and the humans. Dissolves and thins in the air. Without her, the Call grew stronger; not even the trumpets of heaven could drown it.

"Sorry and goodbye," He whispered, closing his eyes. "My fair sister. Sorry and goodbye.

He did not say, "May your grace never end!" as was the custom among them. Because for him who hears the call and goes to it, there is no greater desire than to lose all grace and be near his man.

He knew that now.


	2. Chapter 1

John jumped up with a groan, wrenching himself out of a stifling, painful sleep. Then he fell back on the bed, squinting and trying to banish the visions. The only thing he remembered clearly was blood. There was too much for him to calmly ponder the dream.

It was three o'clock: the devil's hour, as people liked to say. Not that he believed it, but it was still in his head.

His dreams always had the bitter aftertaste of death. Gray-red, almost colorless pictures dissolved in the vastness of his memory, as soon as he opened his eyes and absorbed the bright even in the gloom of the room colors of the surrounding objects. And then they slipped and faded away in the depths of his mind.

Fifteen minutes later, when he realized he couldn't sleep again, he got up. Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped into the kitchen, where he boiled kettle in the dark and sat for a long time at the small table, thinking about how things had turned out. His shoulder ached, but the pain was in his head, not in reality. He thought it hurt. So was the leg, though there were no old wounds.

From unpleasant and a bit sad reflection over the cold сup of tea he was distracted by a knock. It was only five o'clock in the morning, and someone was banging insistently on the door of John's apartment. With a sigh, he set aside the cup he had not touched and, leaning heavily on his cane, strode into the hallway.

John did not look through the peephole, but hastily unlocked the locks, for only one man could be so eager to get at him. John didn't want to know him. And at the same time unimaginably good to see him.

Moriarty.

A gun was thrust under his nose. As if the thought of death might frighten him and make him move faster. John sighed again and looked up at his guests. Moriarty was literally hanging on to his chain dog. And that clearly bothered the normally impassive Sebastian Moran.

"You're a doctor," Moran practically growled. Without waiting for permission to enter, he shouldered John aside and stepped inside. "Help him!"

"I'm not a surgeon," said John and pursed his lips, anger rising inside him. He told Moriarty not to come back a hundred times. Still, John couldn't refuse when he came back much as he did now. However, he usually went on foot.

"Treatment him."

John shook his head in exasperation as he closed the door and limped after Moran into the living room and, in combination, the bedroom.

The first time Moriarty came by accident. Almost. John met him on his porch that night and helped him, as he always did. He meekly and carefully removed the bullet, not even trying to call an ambulance. He stitched the wound, put bandages. And then he gives him drink the morning coffee is delicious and with a sad smile listened to then threats. As if without them he was going to go to the police and tell them that illegally, without a license, operating on a man considered a criminal.

As soon as the wound healed sufficiently doesn't to be life-threatening, Jim Moriarty left, leaving behind the Apple cores, the smell of expensive tobacco. And a shirt.

A month later he came again. Wounded again. And John treated him again. And so again and again for the past three years. An enviable constancy for Moriarty. And no matter how much John asked not to come and forget the way to his apartment, Moriarty still seeped into the house.

And if he is a criminal consultant (John has repeatedly witnessed how famously from boredom Moriarty comes up with his perfect crimes and taking John's laptop and posts it on some website) trusted him unconditionally, then Sebastian Moran, ex-military — seen him as a threat. And every time Moriarty gave the order to take himself to the doctor's apartment, Sebastian Moran would point a gun in John's face and threaten him. As if there was no other way to ask.

"How long ago?" John asked wearily, taking his medical bag out of the closet. Perhaps he should have accepted Moriarty's presence in his life as the others did. Where is old England without not a quite "old and good villain"?

"I couldn't bring him in right away," Moran said defensively. He clearly did not know what to do with himself in this modest apartment. Too small, too empty. John rented it, paying almost everything he earned by honest work. There was barely enough money left for food, let alone luxuries. He was used to it. Others were lost and uncomfortable.

"There's a kettle in the kitchen. Boil some water, " John said softly, looking at Jim Moriarty. He was again staining the upholstery of the single sofa with blood. John never went to the dry cleaners and resigned himself to hiding the rust stains under the bedcover. Today it is very appositely was in the wash.

Sighing, John knelt beside the couch, his teeth gritting against the pain in his knee.

There was an oily stain on the dark fabric of the Westwood; John had never cared how much the suits cost. Another of Moriarty's spoiled things: he ruthlessly cut the natural wool with a scalpel just to the right of the seam to get to the wound. From the kitchen came the clink of crockery. Hot water in such conditions has never been enough. If he had been Jim Moriarty, John would have turned to a professional. At least to someone with a license and doesn't have psychosomatic problems, tremors. But Moriarty was strikingly loyal to John's apartment. Or skills.

Sighing, John pushed the shirt aside as far as he could. Skin stuck to the fabric and it didn't look too good: the normally pale skin was red with inflammation. John preferred not to think about Moriarty's scarring. The most important thing was to remove the bullet as quickly as possible. Clean and sew up the wound.

All his actions were brought before automatism, even the pain receded for a while as he soaked the wound. It wasn't comfortable on his knees, but it was the only possible way — no one could drag Moriarty to the table. And the table isn't big enough to support the weight of the body.

Not even Sebastian Moran, hovering insistently beside him, could distract John. He did what should not hesitate: a pulled bullet through muffled hiss Moriarty, dispassionately stitches and bandaged.

Only after John with a groan stood up, his numb leg shot through with pain. He limped across the room, Moran watching him warily. There, behind a small screen, was his bed. And taking the blanket, John went back to cover Moriarty. Loss of blood had to be broken circulation, and _Jim_ could freeze.

"Will you have tea with me?" John said, looking back at Sebastian Moran. To the pain was added a hateful shiver, which John tried to ignore. Still, the shaking of his hands was not as repulsive as the twitching head of a bobble-head.

All they could do was wait for Jim Moriarty to wake up. It had happened before. When he awoke, he would send Moran away. And after that, John would have to endure all the antics and mood swings Moriarty when he was alone with him. Unless, of course, Moriarty had asked his dog to get the hell away.

"No, thank you," Moran said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

John shrugged, limping into the kitchen. He put the kettle back on, emptied the cold tea out of the mug, and sat down in the chair he had been sitting in before the guests arrived. The silence soothed him and gave him time to recover. The tremor slowly receded. John was certainly not upset by Sebastian Moran's refusal.

John hoped Moriarty would leave him alone when he awoke. Though that was at odds with what John knew of his character. Jim Moriarty never let go of those he considered his property. Or, as in his case, anyone he was even remotely interested in.

John was too interesting. He didn't fit into the usual boundaries and limitations. And dissenters just attracted Moriarty. And he hurried to prove, that nothing write home about in them there is no. With habitual ease, he did their ordinary people, with narrow-minded desires. But it didn't work with John.

John thought of the mangled bullet leftover from the "operation." She was direct evidence of his involvement and guilt, both his own and Moriarty's. And John already knew how to get rid of it. Wipe it with alcohol and throw it into the sewage system. There, among the canals, she will be lost and disappear, as everything disappears. These material reminders of Jim Moriarty's mortality were too many. But all of them found rest where there are no stranger's eyes.

John's mind wandered from one to the other as he sipped his cooling tea and stared out the window at the ordinary landscape. Gray walls of houses, muddy dark Windows. The uninteresting lives of uninteresting people who, like him, locked themselves in apartments at night. Boring. Like his whole life. Or existence? His lips twitched. The second word fits the description better.

"Why are you helping him?" Moran asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. He persisted in asking this question of John every time he came with his owner. As if he followed some tradition: first weapons, then questions.

John's hands were no longer shaking and the pain was slowly receding. John turned to Moran, looking at Him mildly. He did not expect that Moran to understand: they lived in different worlds.

"It is my duty," said John. Even a man like that doesn't deserve to die.

"He doesn't pay you," Sebastian went on accusingly, making John grin. He understood perfectly well what was not said: "You are crazy if you do not take money for work!"

"He's not killing me, that's enough."

John turned away, setting his cup on the table. He didn't say that he wouldn't have taken the money anyway. Its were soaked with blood, and John would have felt stained if he had touched its. He was saving people's lives, not taking them away.

The conversation was over.

Moran's gone. Before Moriarty woke up, which means he had the order to. He didn't say goodbye, just closed the door behind him, leaving John the right to lock up all the locks in partiality of paranoia. And John had to hobble to the hall, accepting the fact that Jim Moriarty would remain in his care.

For an unbearably long time.

John thought that it is time to buy apples.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To meet a Lefty on a Tuesday morning brings unlucky; to meet a Lefty on the morning of any other day of the week brings fortunate. (Durham.)  
This belief can be associated with the Scandinavian God Tiu, who lost his right hand in the battle with the wolf for the benefit of all people. It should be remembered that County Durham is an ancient British Danelagh. As for Tuesday-the day when it would not do to meet a Lefty-it is because Tiu was not only the God of war but also the deity who gave us Tuesday (Tuesday, originally Tiw's day).

"You're not happy."

John said nothing as he peeled the last of the bright red peel from the аpple. At work, his sick leave was skeptical, but days passed. He couldn't do anything but peel fruit. Besides, Moriarty couldn't strain his left arm because of the injury. Inappropriately he remembered that people used to think left-handed messengers of Satan himself. And that Moriarty didn't show up on Tuesday, which meant John had to be lucky. He didn't believe in superstition, though.

"Boredom," Moriarty said again, without waiting for his reply.

John just squinted at him as he put the last slice apples on the saucer.

"And you're boring."

John carefully flicked the scraps from the table into the bucket and put down his knife and got to his feet. Leaning on his cane, he brought a plate of peeled and sliced apples for Moriarty.

"Cheer me up!" Jim demanded without turning.

John raised his eyebrows mockingly. He didn't need Moriarty's money, he didn't work for him. It was impossible to reach his sister at all. And so John was not to entertain anyone. In truth, it was the last thing he would do.

"Your apple," he said softly. One of Britain's most dangerous men now was more like a cranky child whose antics had to be tolerated.

"Why are you always so boring?" Moriarty gasped, wincing. Still, he accepted the saucer with a grateful nod. It was all a mask, and John knew that his guest was afraid of being weak. Afraid to beg but grateful for his care.

"I'll be gone in a few hours," he said, turning to the kitchen. Then he added as if making excuses: "There is a mass in the Church."

It didn't matter to Jim Moriarty. John could see it in the turn of his head, in the set of his lips, a little contemptuously: he was one of those who say there is no God. But John had little to do with Moriarty's faith or disbelief.

"It would better if you'd make me dinner," he said. John ignored the grudge in Moriarty's voice. 

“It would also be nice for you to go to Сhurch.”

He knew it sounded over... well, John was not a fanatic but prayed constantly. For him, God was in every person, in nature around. In everything Jim Moriarty thought was boring.

"Why?"

He sighed, shaking his head. Some people couldn't change, and unfortunately, Moriarty was one of them. It is time for a long time to accept. After all, humility was a benefactor. But the list of things he should turn a blind eye to is endless.

"How's your sister?" Moriarty changed the subject, eliciting a faint patronizing smile from John. "I've never seen how you phone her."

He probably thought to talk about Harry wasn't so boring. For John, at least. Or Moriarty simply couldn't solve the riddle: John always avoided a straight answer about his older sister. And besides the usual "she's not doing well with Clara," he had nothing to say. Harry suffered silently, refusing to complain. And he had enough of his confidently rolling along with an inclined life, and the angel understood this.

"We don't talk much," John said.

"You don't approve?" Moriarty asked. There were countless such questions, but John refused to be provoked.

"As usual. Harry is Harry, I am me. She won't make my mistakes, I won't make her mistakes."

He paused, thinking about when they had last seen each other. It turned out that it was unthinkable for a long time. So much so that he couldn't even tell what time of year it was.

"Boring," Moriarty breathed, setting his empty Apple plate on the floor. Understood, that and in this time John not will speak. "Sometimes I think you're a Saint. You do not sin, you lead a righteous life. You help everyone in need."

"I'm sinning," John said defensively, turning to Jim Moriarty. He frowned and pursed his lips, condemning himself for his lack of restraint.

"What? Don't take the old ladies across the road?" Moriarty's voice was mocking, almost sarcastic. "Tell me, Johnny-boy, how you kill people..."

"I kill them by saving your life."

"You have to sacrifice something," Moriarty said. "Besides, all people do is die..."

John chuckled, stifling a sharp response. That was Moriarty: painfully true words that didn't have an ounce of truth in them. It only attempts to manipulate consciousness.

"This discussion is useless. People are not expendable, " he tried to keep his voice calm, pulling away from his emotions. Not allowing himself to succumb to anger.

"People are idiots. I'm doing them a favor by interrupting their meaningless existence."

"What makes them different from me?"

Moriarty did not answer at once; the question took him by surprise. He frowned as if considering his answer. A crease appeared between his brows.

"Sometimes I imagine you're my pet," Moriarty said seriously as if he had often thought about it and had only just decided to voice it. "A dog, for instance. But then I remember how many times you sewed me up. And, coupled with your beliefs, I can only call you an angel. My guardian."

"Lets enough, this is not a joke."

John pursed his lips, not for a moment approving of his words.

"What's the matter with you? What's wrong with me appreciating you? You're boring, though. " His tone had changed: it was as if Jim Moriarty were doing a huge favor by being in this modest apartment.

"I'm not holding you here by force," John said. "Other places must be more interesting."

"On the contrary," this time, Jim's voice was full of ridicule. "You're not there."

John did not answer, his hands clasped on the knob of his cane. The thought that he was just a pet kept running through his mind. Entertainment for Jim Moriarty. As a favorite bear, which is not sorry for the sake of interest a couple of times to throw on the floor and in the walls.

He knew that if he had not, Moriarty would not have been sad for long. And he again would be returned to their intellectual games with Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes, just like now, John regrets that fate brought him to the wrong person. But nothing could be changed.

He was on the notice of "big brother", the cameras filmed every minute of his life, recording all the oddities. Sometimes he saw a black car with tinted Windows following him.

All this brought a sense of danger and a strange pleasure to his measured life. He was arguing with the cash register, unable to figure out how to pay his credit card. He always bought groceries for two, even when Jim Moriarty wasn't in his care. He goes to Church and begged for forgiveness. And time after time he saved the life of one of the most dangerous men in the country. Even though they were afraid of Moriarty, Jim always had enemies who will find a way how to get closer.

Indelible guilt as John thought. The inability to turn away from the suffering. He saw in Moriarty all the weaknesses without embellishment, fed apples, led from time to time a conversation about God. And Jim Moriarty must have sensed his hesitation. John just couldn't give it up. As soon as Jim left, he felt joy and immediately began to yearn. A strange feeling filled him as if without Moriarty the apartment was even emptier. A therapist would call it loneliness. Nobody wanted him. Even Jim Moriarty. But with him was at least the illusion of utility and necessity.

"You have not heard the saying that grass is always greener on the other side of the fence," he said, at last, looking up at Jim.

Moriarty's dark gaze was fixed on him. " I don't idealize the places I'm in. Your apartment lacks color. It would be worth painting the walls red. But there, where there is no me and you, certainly bored."

There was nothing in his eyes. It was as if Jim Moriarty had no feelings at all. At least the kind that ordinary people had. Although John knew that. A man who blows people up for the sake of idle interest cannot be normal.

"Will you slice me another apple?" the words were ridiculing. But not offensive. More like a soft joke.

"Of course," John said quietly, looking down again. He had a few more hours to think about what to say to the Holy Father in confession. And spending them slicing apples seemed like a better idea than arguing endlessly with a psychopath. Or with himself. And such work was useful for motor skills.

"And make me some tea," added Jim Moriarty, like a petulant child.

"With milk?" John sighed wearily.

"Naturally. You know how I like."

He nodded in agreement. It was useless to say that Moriarty's tastes changed every day. John simply resigned himself to the habit of clarifying. Always.

Still, perhaps the omens were false. Or was it all in Moriarty? John involuntarily frowned. Jim brings misery any day, even though he was left-handed. Or did they just meet for the first time on Tuesday morning? John didn't remember.

Out of place, he thought that on the way back from the Church he need to buy milk.


End file.
